Is it ever remotely possible to end your life? Even if it has been so-called ended, it never would truly end until the last person forgets you, and then you're just left to the dirt. But then you're part of the dirt. Of the plants. Of the animals. Maybe someday you find a little bit of yourself becoming a little bit of someone else. And then you're still there, a million thoughts of your own in a million thoughts of someone else, whether you know it or not.